


The Call

by saltsanford



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Mild Sexual Content, Nightmares, Post-Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, pre-relationship Jon/Tormund, vague allusions to past Jon/Daenerys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: Five times Jon Snow wished he could go North to stay, and the one time he finally did.





	The Call

**Author's Note:**

> that feel when you're in the middle of a longfic for an entirely different fandom and then get shot through the heart with post-finale emotions about jon snow

_Just because everything's changing_  
_doesn't mean it's never been this way before_  
_all you can do is try to know who your friends are_  
_as you head off to the war._  
_Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light,_  
_you'll come back when it's over_  
_no need to say good-bye._  
-The Call, Regina Spektor

* * *

 

**one.**

The summer snow falls soft on his shoulders, catching in his curls like powdered sugar. He is two weeks from Winterfell and it seems a different world here, so close to the Wall. He doesn’t know if it has always been different, or if the difference is only in that he knows he shouldn’t be here. He can see the Wall in the spaces between the roofs and trees, a smudge of grey against the paler grey of the sky. What he remembers most about the only time he’d been to Castle Black was how his neck had hurt for days after staring up into that grey-white sky. How the Wall seemed to never end, how it seemed to become the very sky itself.

The smudge of grey is faint, and as the sun sets, he knows it will soon be lost to sight. With every mile that they creep closer, the temperature drops, reminding him of his ominous house words: _Winter is Coming._

 _It’s not_ my _house,_ Jon reminds himself fiercely, as a frigid blast of wind whips his cloak around his legs. _Bastards don’t_ have _houses._ He tucks his head deeper into the fur cowl of his cloak and steals a glance at the retreating northmen, but they do not notice him crouching behind the cart, eager as they are to get into the warmth of the Mole’s Town tavern.

Jon’s stomach growls uncomfortably. The cart he has been calling home for this journey is full of supplies for the Night’s Watch—bags of grain, boxes of medicine, furs aplenty—but nothing that he can eat. He eats what he can find in the dead of night, quiet as a mouse, careful not to rouse any of the horses or sleeping men when he slips away from the cart. The woods have yielded little more than berries and roots on a good day. The bad days have left him with no other option than to make due with pine needles and bark.

The only thing he has dared to filch from the supply party is a small bowl, which he packs with snow every night to eat throughout the day. His years following Maester Luwin  around Winterfell have undoubtedly saved his life, for without all the knowledge he had learned, he would have been forced to reveal himself mere days into his flight.

When he’s certain no one is coming back out from the tavern, he darts from the cart around to the back of the tavern and into the trees, hiding low in the shadows. The noise from the tavern echoes strangely in the silence of the night, and the loneliness he feels is bigger than any he has felt at Winterfell. He waits, eating handfuls of snow, until the back door of the tavern slams open, and a cook tosses something out into the refuse. Jon waits a few moments after the door is slammed shut before darting forward to investigate.

It turns out to be a few blackened loaves of bread, but Jon is starving and has rarely tasted anything so delicious. He hurries back to the cart with his prize and curls up in the nest he’d made amongst the bags of grain, forcing himself to save some of his meal just in case. He thinks he should feel ashamed, stealing food from the trash, but decides that in his new life as a wildling, he has done well.

Wildling.

In the cold quiet of the night, with a full belly for the first time in days, Jon thinks about what it means to be a wildling. Everything has begun to make sense. Why he was so different from the rest of his family. He was, of course, a bastard, a Snow; now he knew he was also a wildling. It made sense, and shame curdled in his stomach as he thought about the reason for his flight.

He and Robb had come upon Arya playing in a private courtyard with a stick, swinging it about as though it were a greatsword. They’d taken it upon themselves to teach her a few things, an event that left them laughing and impressed at three-year-old Arya’s fierceness. She had been delighted, giggles one moment, furrowed brows and intense concentration the next.

Jon had felt like a Stark, felt like a big brother, felt like family. Robb ran off to find more sticks while Jon continued playing with Arya. Catelyn Stark had come upon the scene with no warning and shrieked, making him startle. Before he could pull his swing, his stick connected with the side of Arya’s head, drawing blood.

“A boy of nine should behave as such!” she’d raged, despite the fact that Robb was also a boy of nine. “As a boy about to become a _man! What_ you were thinking, brawling with Arya like a savage, you are no better than a _wildling—_ ”

Jon had run, shoving past a confused Robb who’d just returned with a batch of fresh sticks, and a wailing Arya until he’d reached his room, slamming the door shut behind him. He had moved without thinking, blood pounding in his ears, palms shaking as he pulled on his warmest cloak and stuffed a few things into a rucksack. Catelyn had snapped at him plenty of times, had shown him cold indifference even more often, but _this…_

Maybe she was right. He had made his little sister bleed.

 _No better than a wildling,_ she’d said.

He couldn’t _bear_ it, not one more second. Not one more indifferent gaze, not one more agonizing dinner where he sat apart from his siblings whenever the northern lords came to visit, not one more vague answer from his father about where he came from. There was a cart carrying supplies leaving for the Night’s Watch that afternoon, and Jon had slipped inside when no one was looking and buried himself beneath its contents.

There was only one place for a wildling to go.

* * *

 As the cart slows to a stop just inside Castle Black, Jon carefully goes over his plan. It’s a simple one, that consists of him waiting until the cart is brought to wherever the grain is kept. He’ll slip out when no one is looking, hide in the store room, and—

“Who the fuck are you?!”

To his horror, the Watch’s steward who receives the cart not only whips the cover off at once, but does so in full view of the main courtyard. His plan dissolves as the two of them stare at each other, the steward gaping between him and, presumably, the northmen who’d brought the cart. “What is the meaning of this?”

The face of the cart’s driver comes into view, blood draining from his face. “Oh, Gods,” he gasps, horror struck. “ _Snow?_ What are you doing here?”

“You mean to tell me that this boy hid in your cart for two weeks and you’re just _now_ noticing his presence?” the steward says, snickering. “Good thing driving a horse and cart don’t require no brains—”

“You don’t understand,” the driver says in a strangled whisper. “This is _Ned Stark’s_ b—”

Jon doesn’t wait to hear the rest. He hurdles himself out of the cart, trips over his cloak, and is glancing around wildly to determine which direction to run when—

“Jon? _Jon!_ ”

Jon crashes right into someone so hard that he bounces off their chest and nearly falls. The man reaches out to steady him, and Jon’s eyes widen as he glances up directly into the eyes of his own Uncle Benjen. “What in—what are you _doing_ here? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

He runs a hand through Jon’s hair and checks it for blood, tilts his chin up to examine both sides of his face. “Uncle _Benjen,_ ” Jon mutters, embarrassed. He tries to push his Uncle’s hands away, torn between wanting to press into the affection after two lonely weeks and wanting to appear strong in front of what seems to be half the Night’s Watch. “I’m _fine_ …”

The stricken look on Uncle Benjen’s face sends guilt lancing through Jon, and he shifts uncomfortably. He feels that it would appear very foolish to admit that he ran away. “Everyone else is fine too,” he assures his uncle. “I just…I…”

His gaze flicks to the men surrounding them. Uncle Benjen straightens, clapping a reassuring around across Jon’s shoulders. “Come on. My quarters, then?”

Jon nods, grateful, and allows his uncle to lead him away from the prying eyes towards his room. It’s a small space with little more than a bed and a chair next to a table, but the solitude is a relief. Uncle Benjen disappears for a moment and returns with a plate of food for Jon. He tries not to appear too ravenous, but it’s the best chicken he’s ever tasted, and he can’t slow down after the first bite. His uncle’s brow furrows deeper and deeper as Jon eats, though he waits until the plate is empty before speaking. “Jon. Your father is out of his mind with worry.”

Jon’s looks at him, surprised, and his uncle sighs. “We received a raven nearly two weeks ago now, asking if anyone had seen you. Never in a million years did I think you’d make it all the way up here.”

When Jon drops his gaze, his uncle leans forward, tipping his chin back up until their eyes lock. “You were pleased when I told you I wanted to join the Night’s Watch,” Jon improvises wildly. “I thought…”

“Aye, so I was,” his uncle says gently, “but I thought that might happen when you were a little older. Did you have a fight with one of your siblings?”

Jon shakes his head mutely. “Your father?” A pause. “Lady Catelyn?”

“She hates me.”

“Jon…” Uncle Benjen sighs, rubs a hand across his face. “I know the two of you never warmed to each other—”

“Because she _hates_ me—”

“She does not _hate_ you—”

“She does!”

“You were welcomed into the Winterfell castle,” Uncle Benjen reminds him. “You were raised as a brother to your siblings, trained side by side with Robb—”

“I _know,_ ” says Jon, but he’s sick of it, suddenly, of feeling guilty that he has spent the last nine years of his life praying in the Godswood for more, for something he’s never had. To be a Stark. To have a mother.

To know what it is like to belong somewhere, bone deep and true.

His uncle frowns, dropping a kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry. I know it’s difficult.” He pauses. “You know I’ll need to send a raven to your father, don’t you?”

Jon nods, finally meeting Uncle Benjen’s gaze. “He’ll be angry with me.”

“Maybe a little,” his uncle concedes, “but I think he’ll mostly just be glad to know you’re okay.”

Jon feels guilty once more, but only nods. “Is there somewhere I could sleep?”

“Of course,” says Uncle Benjen, standing. “Come, there’s a room just down the hall. We’re a bit empty right now anyway—a bunch of our rangers are off beyond the Wall.”

Jon looks at him sharply. “Why?”

“We’ve spotted the wildlings awfully close as of late, so they’ve gone to investigate. Should be back tomorrow.”

“When?”

“Early. Dawn, even.” His uncle looks at him. “Awfully interested, aren’t we?”

Jon shrugs. “Well…I’ll be a ranger someday, too. Won’t I?”

His uncle throws an arm over his shoulders, and Jon follows him towards the spare room, plopping onto the cot. “I’ll go send that raven to your father at once,” Uncle Benjen says. “Knowing my brother, he’ll find a way to arrive by sunset tomorrow.”

Jon smiles at him, trying to look grateful, but all he feels is relieved.

By sunset tomorrow, he’ll be long gone.

* * *

He’s awake well before dawn, slipping quietly from his bed. He packs his bag full of the food he’d stolen from the kitchens in the middle of the night, and is just exiting his room when he almost runs into Uncle Benjen. “Oh! Good, you’re up. You’ve heard, then?”

Jon freezes and tries not to look guilty. “Heard what?”

“Your father has just arrived!” says Uncle Benjen, and Jon’s heart drops to his feet.

_“How?”_

“Turns out that he chose to go with the search party that was heading to the Wall,” says Uncle Benjen, oblivious to Jon’s mounting panic. “He had a hunch that you’d be heading this way—”

Jon pushes past him and takes off at a run. He can hear Uncle Benjen shout his name, but he doesn’t stop, not when he gets outside, not until he reaches the tunnel. The gate at the end is already opening for the returning rangers, just as his uncle had said. After the barest moment of hesitation, Jon runs through the moment it opens wide enough for him to squeeze through.

The wind whips his face and he pushes through, arms pumping, legs sinking knee-deep into the soft, fresh-fallen snow. He runs past the startled rangers, runs towards the ghostly trees on the horizon, running as he’s never run before. It’s terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, and all he can think is that perhaps Catelyn was _right,_ even more than she knew—perhaps he _was_ no better than a savage wildling—

Maybe, _maybe_ this is where he belongs. Something in his blood is singing, is lighting up at the wildness of the open space, at the vastness of the sky, bigger than he’s ever seen. Is it so impossible that it feels right because it _is,_ because--because his real mother is out here somewhere, north of the north?

 _Impossible_ , a part of him says quietly, because he knows his father and how he feels about the wildlings, _knows_ , even, that his father was down south when he was born, but he shoves these thoughts aside and runs, _runs—_

“Jon! _JON!_ ”

The sound of his father’s panicked voice only makes him run faster, until he’s stumbling in the soft snow. His father’s arms encircle him from behind and Jon thrashes in his grip, feet lifting off the ground. “Let me go, let me _go!_ ”

“JON!”

His father spins him around, gripping his shoulders with a hard shake. “Have you _lost_ your mind? What were you _thinking—_ ”

“Let me go!” Jon yells again, struggling against his father’s unyielding grip. “I’m _leaving_ , let me GO!”

“Going _where?_ ” his father cries. “Do you have _any_ idea how terrified we were— _beside_ ourselves—”

“You weren’t! I don’t belong there, she said, _she said_ —”

His father’s face falls at that. He does not ask who Jon means by _she_. “Son—come back inside, it isn’t safe out here—”

“I don’t _want_ to go back inside! I don’t _want_ to go back to Winterfell, I want to stay _here_ , I want—I want—”

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until his father lifts a hand to his face, swiping a thumb across Jon’s cheek. “Jon. Son. Why wouldn’t you want to go back home?”

“Because— _because—_ ” but he’s well and truly sobbing now, big, gulping things that make it hard to speak. “I don’t _belong_ at home—”

“And you belong here?”

“She said, she _said_ I’m no better than a savage _wildling—_ ”

“Oh, Jon,” his father says. He smooths back Jon’s hair, brushing the snow from his tangled locks. “Come, now. Come inside and let’s talk. Gods, you look stick-thin, what have you been eating?”

Jon resists only a moment longer before he allows his father to tug him gently forward. His father’s hands stutter on Jon’s shoulders as if he wants to lift him into his arms, but he thinks better of it and settles for wrapping a hand firmly around Jon’s. Jon can’t bring himself to meet the eyes of the men in the Night’s Watch, but looks up as they pass his Uncle Benjen, who clears his throat loudly. “Benjen. Can you find Robb and tell him we’ll meet him later?”

Jon looks up sharply. “Robb’s here?”

“Robb,” says his father calmly, “has hardly slept since you left. If I hadn’t allowed him to come with me, he would’ve followed anyway, and then I’d have two missing sons.”

Jon squirms guiltily, but his father says no more until they are alone in the very room Jon had slept in the night before. He’s still crying, though silently now, wiping furiously at his cheeks with his fist. He’s embarrassed until he meets his father’s gaze and realizes that his own eyes are swimming with tears.

Jon freezes, staring at his father, who leans forward to grasp Jon’s hands. “Jon…I owe you an apology. You should have felt that you could come to me with any problems you were having with Cat. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, and for that I’m sorry.” He gives Jon’s hands a squeeze. “You are my _son_ , and I love you.”

Jon looks at him. “Who was my mother?”

“Jon—”

“Was she a wildling?”

His father blinks, startled, then shakes his head, fighting back a smile. “No, but I do believe you already knew that. Is that why you came here?”

“Then who was she?”

“She isn’t around anymore,” his father says simply, and Jon sighs. “Jon. I know you were upset, and I’m sorry for that, but you can _never_ run away like that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers. “I just thought…”

He looks out the window towards the Wall. He cannot see anything but the glittering flat plane of it shooting up into the sky.

“You know that I’ll be leaving to suppress the Greyjoy rebellion soon,” his father says. “I would feel much better if I knew that you and Robb were there to look after the family in my absence.”

Jon looks at him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Really. Someone needs to help keep Arya under control.” His father smiles, leaning forward. “She’s been furious that her sword lessons got interrupted, you know.”

Jon flushes. “I didn’t _mean_ to hurt her—”

“I know that,” his father says, “and so does Catelyn.” He pauses. “She feels badly, you know. She did not want this.”

Jon isn’t certain if he’s lying or not, but he sighs. “Alright, father. I’ll come home and…and help Robb.”

“And apologize to your Uncle Benjen?” he raises an eyebrow. “You scared the life out of him, dashing out the gate like that.”

“Sorry,” Jon says again, and his father hugs him tight. “I just….”

He doesn’t know how to explain himself. Sitting here, staring at his father, his plan sounds ridiculous, but it had made such sense to him at the time.

“Will you let me take you home now?” his father asks, and Jon nods.

* * *

Later, much later, Jon will find it difficult to explain, even to himself, the logic that sent him running from home. He will look back on the event and feel embarrassed that he ran so far away, that he caused so many to worry. He will remember Robb hugging him so tightly that it hurt in front of half the Night’s Watch, and his father asking him to look after the family, and Arya leaping on him when he arrived home.

He will remember, clear as a bell, how cold the air felt beyond the Wall, how biting, how crisp. He will remember how freeing it felt to be untethered in this world, to be beholden to no one, to nothing, for only a moment.

It will be years before he feels such a thing again.

* * *

  **two.**

Ygritte snores, when she sleeps on her back. It’s something Jon has noticed before in the camp, though no one has ever remarked on it. Probably because she’s not the only one. Probably because the other wildlings value their lives too much to tease her about it. But here in the cave—here, it _echoes_. Jon props himself on up on an elbow and watches her, grinning broadly. Her hair is fanned out around her like a fistful of flames, and one arm is thrown over her head, mouth hanging slightly open. Taking up space, making noise, even in sleep. It suits her.

She awakens with a particularly loud snort, blinking sleepily up at Jon as he covers his mouth to hide the smile. “Something funny, Jon Snow?”

“Nothing at all,” says Jon, trying to keep a straight face.

She props herself up on both elbows, squinting at him. “You watchin’ me sleep?”

“No.” Jon pauses. “ _Listening_ to you sleep, more like.”

She narrows her eyes. “ _Listening?_ Was I talking in my sleep?”

“You were _snoring,_ ” says Jon, and she sits up instantly with a gasp.

“I do _not_ snore!”

“Hmm. Maybe we should ask the others, then.”

Ygritte huffs, shoving him back down against their discarded furs. “I never! I think I’d know it if I _snored._ Orell sounds like he belongs in a bear den and the others never let him hear the end of it!”

Jon grins. “That’s because you’re scarier than Orell.”

She considers this, moving to straddle him. “Do _you_ think I’m scary, Jon Snow?”

“Terrifying,” Jon admits, still grinning. Gods, when was the last time he smiled this much? His cheeks hurt with the unfamiliarity of it. “Promise not to hurt me?”

“You might like it if I hurt you, though,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss him. He gasps into her mouth as she bites his lip, groans as she digs her nails hard into the meat of his shoulders. “Sometimes, a little _pain_ with the pleasure…”

Her mouth goes to his ear, his collarbone, his throat, hot and insistent and almost certainly leaving marks on him. It’s a thrilling thought, that someone might see those marks later, might realize just what they were and who made them. He doesn’t even recognize the sounds he’s making, and he’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so good. When she pulls at his hair he positively whimpers, and she leans back and grins. “Now who’s loud? The whole camp will be in here to get a piece if you keep _that_ up—”

Jon rolls her onto her back, fisting a hand in her gorgeous hair, leaning down to kiss her breathless. Neither one of them is particularly quiet after that, but neither one of them seems to care. They hold each other tightly, so tightly, and when they finish, breathless and spent, they can’t stop smiling at each other.

Jon watches as her eyes close once more, and for just a moment, he allows himself to pretend. Pretend that he isn’t still bound to the Night’s Watch—that he is bound instead to this fierce, funny woman, and she to him, not because it’s a good political decision, not because it will bring peace between their houses, but because they chose each other. He lets himself pretend that his only duty is to this woman and this clan—to make a future with her, to raise their children to be strong and fierce, to protect these people when the long night finally comes.

In the space between two breaths, he pretends that he belongs here, has always belonged here.

He _could_ do it. He could stay, could truly turn away from the Night’s Watch, could make this his home—

But those thoughts vanish even more quickly. He has people waiting for him, depending on him. He will not let them down.

Jon closes his eyes, pulls Ygritte into his arms, and pretends anyway.

Just for a little while longer.

* * *

  **three.**

Jon watches from the deck of the ship until the dead are merely ants, until Hardhome is the barest sliver on the horizon, until it is nothing at all. So _many._ So many lives lost. If he had come just one day sooner, just _one_ —

He clutches the railing until his fingers ache, until the shaking that has begun to wrack his body subsides into nothing more than occasional trembles. When a voice sounds in his ear, he jumps, startled to find Edd standing next to him, looking just as exhausted as Jon feels. “How long have you been there?”

“A while.” Edd frowns at him. “Jon. Come inside.”

Jon shakes his head mutely. Edd’s hand grips his arm just above the elbows and squeezes, familiar and reassuring. “We need to talk about what we’ll do when the ship lands. And you— _you_ need to eat something. Everyone else has. Come on.”

Jon sighs, prying his fingers off of the railing. “Alright. Where—” He gasps sharply as he turns, one hand pressing against his ribs, the other clutching at Edd’s arm to stay upright.

“Jon! Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Jon shakes his head, wincing, but doesn’t resist when Edd pulls one of Jon’s arms over his shoulder. “No, I— _ah_ —ribs might be bruised a bit, is all.”

“Or broken,” Edd says suspiciously. “You should’ve said something—”

“I didn’t realize,” Jon says honestly. “I hadn’t moved in a while—the adrenaline—” He tries to remember if his ribs had hurt while climbing from the rowboat onto the ship, and then realizes he doesn’t remember exiting the rowboat at all.

Edd shakes his head. “Let’s get you downstairs—”

“What happened?”

Jon glances up to see Tormund striding towards them, surprised when the wildling shrugs Jon’s other arm up over his shoulder. “I’m fine—”

“Don’t look fine,” Tormund grumbles, then glances across Jon’s head at Edd. “One of my people made it on this ship—knows a good bit about medicine. Thought he should be on this boat.”

“It’s only a few bruised ribs,” Jon protests, but they’re already leading him down towards the belly of the ship as if he’s been stabbed in the gut. He tries not to wince when they lower him onto one of the bunks. Tormund leaves while Edd helps him out of his thick outer furs, and returns a few minutes later with a wildling Jon does not recognize at his side. “I’ll go tell the others you’ll be a bit,” says Edd, and leaves.

Jon shrugs out of the rest of his furs while the wildling man crouches at his side. “Shagrot,” he says, offering Jon a smile and his hand, which he shakes. He’s surprised at the lack of hostility or suspicion in the man’s eyes, but then, given what they just went through… “Tormund says your ribs might be broken?”

Jon shoots Tormund an exasperated look before directing his attention back to Shagrot. “Probably just bruised.”

“That’s good,” he says absently, examining Jon’s torso. “If they’re broken, you may have punctured a lung.”

Jon looks at him in alarm. “Wouldn’t I know it if I punctured a lung?”

“Probably. Can you breathe alright?”

“Uh…” Jon takes a deep breath experimentally. “Hurts a little, but doesn’t sound that drastic—”

He hisses and fists his hands into the furs on either side of him as Shagrot prods at his ribcage. “Don’t think they’re broken,” he proclaims after about a minute of this, “but could be cracked.”

“So…”

“So, try to take it easy.” Shagrot shrugs when Jon looks at him incredulously. “And put some ice on them.”

“Won’t have a problem finding some ice around here,” says Jon, then snorts. “Sorry…”

But now that he’s started laughing, he can’t stop. He drops his head into his hands, breathless with laughter, wincing all the while. “Ow—sorry—I meant—thank you—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Tormund says from somewhere above him, and then Shagrot is gone and Tormund is kneeling in front of him. “Do I have to slap you silly, boy?”

“ _Take it easy and ice the wound,_ ” Jon snorts, positively giggling now. “Take it easy…when they’re coming for us…”

Tormund doesn’t exactly slap him, just cuffs Jon on the side of the head and grips his face until Jon’s insane laughter begins to peter out into short, breathless gasps. He grabs at Tormund’s arm, struggling to get himself under control, and that’s when he notices Tormund’s eyes are swimming with tears. He squeezes Tormund’s wrist and Tormund curls his fingers so tightly into Jon’s hair that it hurts, but he doesn’t care. “I’m sorry,” Jon gasps finally. “I’m so, so sorry. I wish we could have saved them all. I’d give anything to change that.”

Tormund closes his eyes, doesn’t resist when Jon leans forward to wrap his free arm around him. “Here am I am, going to pieces when those were _your_ people—”

“Hard not to crack up after seeing a thing like that,” Tormund says in his ear, and they stay like that for a while, clutching each other tight enough to feel it, to remind themselves that they are here, and alive. It seems impossible that less than a week ago, Tormund was in chains and looking at him with murder in his eyes. Something had shifted irreversibly between them since then, had shifted somewhere between Jon taking those chains off and the horror of Hardhome, and now-

Now, he only finds himself grateful that Tormund is here, that he will continue to be there, until they see this thing through.

Tormund pulls back with a shaky breath, releasing Jon’s hair to swipe an arm across his eyes. “We’ve fought them before, but never…I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Jon nods. It occurs to him for the first time that those were faces that Tormund recognized, among the dead. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but Tormund shakes his head.

“If it weren’t for you, every single one of them would be dead. Don’t think I’ll forget it. Don’t think that they will either. And—” Tormund falls silent, an uncharacteristically hesitant look falling across his face.

Jon frowns. “What?”

Tormund looks at him. “And I don’t expect your fellow crows will forget it either.”

“Oh, I doubt that they will,” Jon says with a hollow laugh.

“I mean it. They’ll hate you for this. They already do.”

“I know that,” says Jon, simple and stubborn. “I’d still do it again.”

“I know you would. And that’s why you need to be careful.”

“Careful?”

Tormund chuckles darkly. “How do you think they’ll react when they see four thousand Free Folk at their gates?”

“They’ll react by opening them,” says Jon, hoping with all his heart that it’s true, that Thorne will keep his word, that they won’t be trapped out here. “Like I told them to. They know we’re coming, Tormund.”

“They won’t be able to get us all through at once,” says Tormund, and Jon nods.

“It’s true, but you can camp right outside the gates. If anything happens, anything at all, we’ll bring you inside—”

Tormund waves a hand. “You could stay out there with us, you know.”

“No, I couldn’t. Do you know how that would look?”

Tormund doesn’t seem as if he cares much how it looks, but he doesn’t press the issue. “The crows on this boat. You trust them?”

Jon doesn’t have to think about it. “With my life.”

“Then keep them close.”

After a moment, Jon nods, and Tormund stands, offering him a hand. Jon accepts, wincing, and shrugs back into his furs to go meet Edd. He stares at Tormund’s back as they climb the stairs to the deck and wishes, with a longing so fierce it dims the pain in his ribs, that he was staying with them, that they weren’t going back to Castle Black at all. He wishes, insanely, that he could stay beyond the wall forever, with Tormund and the Free Folk, that the army of the undead would mysteriously vanish. They could rebuild Hardhome, they could—

“Jon? You coming?”

Tormund is frowning at him at the top of the stairs, and Jon pushes the thoughts down. “I’m coming,” he says, and wonders how he got here, to a place where he trusted the Free Folk more than half of his own Night’s Watch brothers.

* * *

  **four.**

_But you, Lord Snow, you’ll be fighting their battles forever._

Thorne’s words echo in Jon’s skull long after he’s dead, snapped by the rope that Jon himself cut. Fighting whose battles, he wonders? Those of the Watch? Those of the Free Folk? Or was he speaking in general terms, knowing that there would always be a battle to fight, knowing that Jon would always find himself in the thick of it?

He’s exhausted, bone deep and wrung out, half-convinced that he’ll drop dead at any moment when someone realizes he doesn’t even _believe_ in the god who supposedly brought him back. The wounds on his torso still ache and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get warm again, but when he tells Edd he plans to go south the word catches strangely on his tongue, because what he really means, where he _really_ wants to go is north of north.

It’s stupid, not to mention impossible, but he remembers the smoke from the campfires the Free Folk made in the high tundra, remembers the hot springs and the frosted pine trees, remembers the ridiculous stories and the jokes and he positively _aches_ for it. Jon wonders if the Free Folk would go south with him. If they hunger for the warmth, for a place to wait out the long night.

Why shouldn’t he go down and ask them? Why shouldn’t he do what Tormund had suggested in the first place, and join their camp? They’d come back for him, even if it was just for vengeance, even if it was just to protect his dead body. They’d _come back for him._

_But you, Lord Snow, you’ll be fighting their battles forever._

In that moment, he can’t think of a people whose battles he’d rather fight.

But then a horn sounds and the gates open and he’s got his little sister in his arms. Her bright hair is tangled and coarse on his cheek, and she’s trembling against him and looks more like Catelyn Stark than ever before, but it’s _her,_ it’s Sansa, and he knows that he will go nowhere without her.

“There’s only one place we can go,” says Sansa, later. “Home.”

She means Winterfell, and Jon aches for the drafty, familiar halls, for the hot springs that warmed the castle, for the courtyard where he’d lived so many boyhood triumphs and failures. He doesn’t know if it’s home for him anymore, not the way that it is for her, but when she says it he realizes he isn’t going anywhere. Sansa would never go south, ever again. Neither would any of the Free Folk. He lets the foreign thoughts of sun and sand slip through his fingers, turns his thoughts to snow and ice, to Winterfell, to home and what it means, to the long night again.

* * *

  **five.**

_You’ve got the North in you. The real North._

Jon stares straight ahead on his horse and uses every ounce of willpower he possesses to not look back at Tormund, at Ghost, at the Free Folk still in Winterfell. His stomach is tied in knots, each emotion settling like a weight into his belly—apprehension of the things to come, guilt at bringing the northern armies south, jealousy at what he’s leaving behind, anguish at the thought that he’ll likely never see any of the Free Folk again. Their familiar faces have become a comfort to him and he realizes at that moment that they are the only people in his life that have never demanded anything of him. They deserve this, to go back home, far from all of this, these wars and kings and queens. They belong there. They’ll be happier there.

 _So would you,_ Tormund’s voice comes again.

Jon does look back then, although Winterfell is a mere speck in the distance. For one wild moment, he considers it, considers turning his horse around and running back there, so quickly that no one could stop him. He could be useful to them, he knows it—could learn to hunt from Tormund although he knows he’d be insufferable about it, could teach the children archery, could help protect them against any lingering threats.

The vision vanishes almost as quickly as it came, the knots multiplying in his belly once more. What he wants does not matter, has never mattered. He has a duty, to his family, to his people, to his Queen. He has a duty to see this through.

* * *

  **one.**

Jon loses himself in pieces. He watches them burn on Ygritte’s pyre, smells them in his blood as he dies alone in the snow—feels those pieces break off and drift away throughout the years like dust, like feathers on the wind. There is something _wrong_ inside of him, something that has twisted, bent, warped, little by little. He thinks it finally cracks somewhere in between falling asleep the first night after saying good-bye to his family and waking up in camp with a strangled gasp, wiping frantically at his clothes, convinced that he can smell bodies burning, convinced that his trembling hands are covered in blood, in _her_ blood—

If he awakens the men who are escorting him to the Wall with his thrashing, they don’t say anything. Jon sits there in silence that night, staring out at the dark, arms looped around his knees, until the sky turns from midnight to a scarlet dawn. He shakes his head when he is offered breakfast, the voices of his (traveling companions? captors?) sounding as if they are coming from very far away. The day passes in a blur, as does the one after that, and after that, until he is barely conscious of the miles passing, of the food he is mechanically accepting, of what the men around him are saying.

He thinks they are talking about him, but their voices still have not lost that strange, underwater quality, and Jon cannot find it in himself to truly care if the talk is good or bad. They will be rid of him soon enough, and before he knows it, _soon enough_ arrives, the gates of Castle Black looming large in front of him.

The sight of the gates stirs something that might be panic or dread, but the emotions aren’t quite taking root inside of him the way they should. Jon thinks about turning around. He thinks it slowly, dully, with no real heat or intent. Where would he go, anyway? What would he do? The gates open and he rides through and there, standing on one of Castle Black’s many balconies, is Tormund, looking for all the world as if he’s _waiting_ for Jon.

 _He’s still here,_ Jon thinks, confused, and then, on the heels of that: _he doesn’t look surprised to see me._

Jon had been so certain that the Free Folk would have already left that he hadn’t once considered the thought of Tormund still being here. He keeps looking at him as he enters the courtyard and dismounts his horse, terrified that he’s seeing things, that he’s well and truly lost it, that if his eyes leave Tormund’s for too long a stretch then he’ll be gone, or have never been there at all.

Someone he recognizes only vaguely takes his hand and shakes it, welcoming him to Castle Black—the new Lord Commander, perhaps—and Jon does his best to force a smile and listen to what’s being said, but Tormund is making his way down the steps towards him now. Tormund, whom he’d been certain he’d never see again. Tormund, whom he’d entrusted with Ghost. Tormund, who has never asked anything of him, who has saved his life more than once, whose spine against Jon’s in battle feels like safety, like home. The Lord Commander breaks off mid-sentence as Jon tugs his hand away and walks towards Tormund until they half-crash, half-stumble into each other.

It’s not the boisterous, joyful sort of hug that Tormund normally doles out, the kind that Jon has become so fondly accustomed to. Tormund does not lift him up or ruffle his hair or knock him back several steps with his enthusiasm. He just grips Jon tightly, one hand pressed to the back of his head, the other wrapped so firmly around his torso that Jon can barely breathe. For the first time since leaving King’s Landing, he feels anchored, if only for a moment.

Tormund pulls back and looks hard into his face, frowning. Jon can feel his own gaze slipping in and out of focus and realizes for the first time how deep his exhaustion runs. His sleep has been fitful ever since that first fragmented nightmare, and he’s terrified that the deeper he slips into slumber, the more vivid they will grow. “Do you want to get drunk, or do you want to sleep?” Tormund asks him, and Jon tries to crack a smile and say both, or neither, or that what he really wants is to _go,_ somewhere, anywhere except this place, but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth and he realizes quite suddenly that he cannot remember the last time he spoke.

The furrows in Tormund’s brow deepen. “Neither, then. You look half-starved, did they feed you only scraps of bread on the road? Come with me.”

“Now hold on,” one of the men who escorted Jon protests as they turn away, “he’s here to join the Watch—he needs to say his _vows_ —”

“Right this fucking second?” Tormund inquires over his shoulder with a fierce lift of his eyebrow, and the man who spoke seems to suddenly decide that he has better things to worry about.

 _Yes,_ Jon wants to say. Yes, right this fucking second, because if he doesn’t do it now, _right now,_ then he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to. He _should_ do it, get it over with, but it’s as if his voice has left him entirely, and the mere _thought_ of saying those words makes the broken thing inside of him go black and quiet. _Night gathers, and now my watch begins—_

“Let it be,” the Lord Commander says, and Tormund clearly wasn’t stopping anyway. Jon follows him as they walk, not paying much attention to where they’re going. No one resists, calls him back, drags him off to say his vows. No one does much of anything, except for the brothers he recognizes greeting him with a nod or a handshake. Eventually, Jon realizes that they’re heading to the dining hall, and he sits at the bench nearest to the door and stares at the tabletop until there’s a plate of food slammed in front of him.

Jon looks up to find the room mostly deserted, save for him, Tormund, and several of the other Free Folk. His gaze moves from face to familiar face, all of whom smile or wave or exclaim in joy at the sight of him. Some even come over with a hug or a ruffle of his hair, and Jon does his best to smile at them until Tormund tells them all to “let the man eat in peace.”

They roll their eyes but disperse with a few claps to Jon’s shoulder, leaving him and Tormund alone at the table. _Why,_ Jon wants to ask, but Tormund seems to read the question in his eyes. “We’ll be leaving soon,” Tormund says casually. “Wanted to be sure that winter was truly gone before we set out.”

Winter has been truly gone for three months now, but Tormund doesn’t elaborate, and Jon can’t find it in him to pursue the subject. He nods. Soon. They’ll be leaving soon.

He eats a few bites of his own meal if only to stop Tormund’s grumbling about the weight he’s apparently lost. It tastes like ashes in his mouth, but the wine is good and warming. He does not allow himself more than one goblet. It’s tempting, to drink his fill here with Tormund until the events of the past few months are little more than hazy memories, but he thinks if he starts, he’ll never stop again. So he eats what he can and stares at the wall, until Tormund is motioning him up and leading him away once more. The sky is growing dark, and the two of them stand on the same balcony where he first saw Tormund for a while. Jon waits for someone to come up to him and tell him what to do, where to go, but for the most part, the Night’s Watch seems to look right through him.

He can’t decide if this makes him feel better or worse about his sentence.

“We’re set up just outside Castle Black,” Tormund says after a while, and Jon looks at him in surprise. Tormund shrugs. “The crows know we’ll be on our way soon enough. They’re all too happy to speed up that process. We have a spare tent for you.”

Jon wants to say that there’s no way that whoever is in charge of the Watch will let him camp outside Castle Black with the Free Folk, but no one stops him when they leave the gate. A few more of the Free Folk come up to greet him, but before long Tormund is showing him his very own canvas tent that’s right next to his own, and—

Something hits him so hard in the chest that he falls over onto his back, startled and slightly panicked before he realizes that it’s Ghost. Jon gasps, delighted, wrapping his arms around Ghost’s neck as the direwolf licks at his face, making happy little whimpers. He buries his face in the soft, fluffy fur and squeezes his eyes shut, until he can find it in him to stand.

Jon exits with Ghost in tow to find that Tormund has built a fire in the pit between their tents. The flames are crackling high into the air, and the two of them sit, Ghost laying across Jon’s feet. He smiles at Tormund, warm and grateful, and Tormund grins back. “I might steal your wolf back on occasion. I’ll miss the body heat.” He pauses. “He’s a good friend.”

He is. Jon strokes a hand through Ghost’s soft fur and reaches out to squeeze Tormund’s elbow, grateful. Tormund waves a hand. “Don’t mention it. Just glad you’re back with him, now.”

A comfortable silence falls as they stare into the flames. Nearly half an hour passes before Jon can feel Tormund’s eyes boring into him, and he glances up reluctantly.

“Jon.”

There’s a question there, and concern, too, and Jon can’t. He drops his gaze from Tormund’s, stares straight ahead into the flames and shakes his head, curling his hands into fists on his knees.

Tormund sighs, but doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask a single question and if no one comes up to them, Jon suspects it’s only because Tormund has either shot them a warning look or sent around requests that Jon not be bothered. There’s a warm fur draped around his shoulders, he realizes, but has no memory of how it got there .

He looks at Tormund, trying to convey some of his thanks, and Tormund puts a hand on his shoulder and grips tightly. Jon reaches up to grasp at his hand, terrified he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t.

They stay that way for a very long time.

* * *

Jon drags himself out of bed the next morning in an attempt to make himself useful around the camp, but there doesn’t seem to be much to do. The free folk are nearly all packed, their plans in order, their route set. They speak in excited voices of reclaiming their home beyond the wall and Jon wants to die at the thought of them leaving, at the thought of this loud, bright campsite going silent and cold. Even Castle Black seems cheerier than usual, with the Free Folk going back and forth for food and supplies and helping the Night’s Watch rebuild. “Won’t let the crows say we don’t earn our keep and pay our debts,” one of the women he’s come to recognize grunts at him on her way to the keep.

No one from the Night’s Watch summons him, and Jon is only a little curious about that. It doesn’t matter. They’ll come for him eventually, and he’ll say his vows and the Free Folk will leave, and he will be—

and he will be—

Tormunds sits with him. Not all day—he is the leader of his people now, after all—but often. He brings Jon his meals and gives him tasks around the camp and asks his advice on logistics that Jon suspects he already has the answers to, and seems to find value in his shrugs and nods. It hurts. It hurts, to play any part in sending these people away from him, and it’s also _irritating,_ because whenever Tormund asks him a question it pulls Jon out of the stupor he’s sunk into it, forces him to think although he never speaks an answer. Sometimes, Tormund fills him in on the things he missed. Sometimes, they say nothing at all, but simply pass a flagon of wine between them or stare into the flames.

They do not talk about where Jon has been, or what he has done.

On the third morning, Tormund is waiting for him outside his tent, sitting on a log next to their little fire pit and gesturing for Jon to join him. They sit together for a few minutes, before Tormund turns to face him fully. “Jon.”

Jon shakes his head, already moving to stand, but Tormund reaches out a hand and snags his wrist, pulling him back down so that their eyes are level. “Jon. Are you here?”

Jon closes his eyes, and after a while he hears Tormund sighs and stand. He rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder and squeezes before leaving him alone to his thoughts. _Thank you,_ Jon wants to say, or maybe _I’m sorry,_ but he says nothing, nothing at all.

* * *

His hands are ruby red and slick. There’s a roaring in his ears, explosions or dragon fire or the pounding of his own blood. _Her_ body is so still before him, until it changes to Arya’s body, to Sansa’s, to Robb’s, to Ygritte’s, to his father’s. They’re burning, one after the other, bloody skin boiled to bleached bone, bleached bone crumbled into gray ash. He can _smell_ them, he can smell what he _did_ , can feel the ache of what he didn’t do. He will never be free of it. He will live the rest of his life out here in this room, until there is nothing left inside of him to break.

Jon is shaking now, and the walls of the throne room blur until they are replaced by the canvas walls of his tent. Tormund is here, he realizes with a start, has yanked Jon to a sitting position and is shaking his shoulders hard, brow furrowed, lips forming words Jon cannot hear. Tormund, always there, always steady, always pulling him up from the muck, back from the brink—

Tormund stops speaking quite suddenly, his body jerking, eyes going wide with shock. Jon follows his gaze down to his chest between their bodies, to where Tormund’s furs are darkening, to where Jon has buried a knife deep in his heart. The scent of Tormund’s blood fills the tent, gushes out hot over his hands, until his body sags and Jon catches him, gasping, trembling. “No— _no_ —”

But he’s gone, those laughing blue eyes gone flat and lifeless, and Jon screams.

The sound is loud and startling after so many days of silence. It tears at his throat and sends him tumbling onto the floor, clawing at his face, his chest, his hair. Not Tormund, _not Tormund,_ Jon couldn’t have done this, he didn’t mean to, but he can still smell the blood, can feel the weight of Tormund in his arms as he— _as he—_

 _No more,_ Jon thinks hysterically. He wants to rip himself apart, wants it to end, wants to tear his way out of this treacherous body before he can destroy anyone else, before he can make anymore decisions with drastic consequences, he wants out, out, _out_ —

“Jon! JON!”

He glances around wildly for the source of the noise. Tormund is in front of him once more, which is impossible because Jon was just cradling his body, just _saw_ the life leave his eyes—

Those same eyes that are looking into Jon’s now as Tormund drops to the floor with him. His hands fist hard in Jon’s hair and pull, dragging his gaze up. _“JON!”_

Dimly, Jon realizes he’s still yelling, and he lunges forward, gripping at the front of Tormund’s furs. “You’re bleeding,” he gasps, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. “You’re bleeding, you’re _bleeding_ —”

The blow to the side of his head is more startling than painful, and Jon sucks in a long, shuddering gasp. Tormund’s hands are back on his face at once, giving him a firm shake. “Jon! Look at me. _Look!_ No one is bleeding!”

He takes one of Jon’s hands and presses it to his chest. Jon curls his fingers in the furs and pulls them away, breathing heavily, but Tormund is right. There is no blood. No knife. Ghost is whimpering at his side, tongue licking Jon’s hand over and over.

“ _Oh,_ ” he gasps, the pieces slowly clicking into place. He is shaking so badly that his teeth are chattering. “Oh, gods—I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ —”

“ _Jon,_ ” Tormund says again. His forehead drops against Jon’s as he presses Jon’s palm harder against his chest. “You aren’t here. There’s no blood, see? Come back.”

Jon focuses on the feel of Tormund’s pounding heart beneath his fingers, on the steady rise and fall of Tormund’s chest. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to match his breath, tries to come back to the camp and the tent, but it had felt so real, so very _real_ , and he’s terrified that if he opens his eyes he’ll be back in that throne room and Tormund will be--

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, over and over. There’s still a great howl locked in his chest that’s desperately trying to claw its way out, and he wishes suddenly that he could _be_ Ghost, if only for a moment, that he could run and run—

“Stop apologizing, you mad fool,” says Tormund, but Jon just shakes his head until he feels Tormund stand. “Come on.”

Jon opens his eyes and stares at the offered hand for a moment before taking it. He feels weak and unsteady on his own legs, body filled with pins and needles, but he allows Tormund to pull him out of the tent.

They’re on the edge of the camp, and Jon is grateful when Tormund leads him away from the tents and the shadowy figures of the Free Folk that he undoubtedly woke up. Tormund heads towards the little patch of trees they’ve been chopping for firewood. Ghost trots along at their sides, his powerful body pressing occasionally against Jon’s legs.

They stop when they reach the trees, Tormund yanks their chopping ax out of the stump where it’s been left, gestures with it towards a pile of firewood, and hands it to Jon without a word.

Jon seizes it at once, hefts it above his head, and sends it crashing down into the fallen tree. He’s weak and shaky from his nightmare and his form is off, the sensation vibrating through his arms, but he lifts the ax and does it again. He chops and chops at the tree until some of the restless energy is gone from his body, until his arms are weak, until he collapses to his knees and presses his forehead to the dirt, utterly spent.

Ghost nuzzles at the back of his neck and presses against Jon’s side, and the pine needles crunch as Tormund sits on Jon’s other side and drops his hand to Jon’s back as the night goes on and on.

* * *

Jon does not sleep for the rest of the night, even when he eventually staggers back to his tent. He waits until first light and goes at once to Tormund’s tent, clearing his throat. “Tormund?”

“Come in,” Tormund says, and Jon enters to find him already dressed. He hesitates, then takes a seat on Tormund’s bedroll next to him.

“I wanted to apologize for last night—and say thank you,” Jon hurries to add, as Tormund waves a hand at him. “I probably woke everyone up—”

“You didn’t—”

“I did, don’t lie. I’m…very, very glad that you were here. Truly, Tormund. Thank you.”

Tormund looks at him. “Why do you sound as if you’re saying good-bye?”

“I need to go back to Castle Black,” says Jon. “It’s time for me to say my vows—”

“About that.” Tormund leans forward, elbows on his knees, the look on his face so reminiscent of the one he wears when about to head into battle that Jon leans back a little. “Is there really a point to you saying your vows?”

Jon stares at him, confused. “It’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, but if you say them, you’ll just have to break them, and that’s one more thing for you to tear yourself apart over—”

“I’m not going to _break them_ —”

“Jon. You’re not staying here.”

“Here…?”

“ _There,_ ” Tormund emphasizes, gesturing vaguely towards Castle Black. “With the other crows.”

“I _have_ to,” Jon says. “This was my sentence—”

“What good does you being here do anyone? The Long Night is over. The threat is gone. You going to spend the rest of your days with the fuckers who shoved their knives into your heart for nothing?”

“I hung those men,” Jon reminds him. “ _These_ men here—they’re good people. I fought with them. So did you.”

“You died here,” Tormund says, loudly. “Those fuckers killed you, _here_. You’re not staying.”

“That’s not your decision, Tormund,” Jon says quietly.

“You’re right. It’s yours.”

“It’s not mine either—”

“It _is,_ ” says Tormund fiercely. “Gods, Jon, for once in your life, _let_ it be yours. You said you wished you were going, before you rode south, and now you’re back here and—”

“It doesn’t matter what I said,” Jon snaps, “and it doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“It matters what I—”

“If you tell me it’s what you deserve, I’ll pull your guts out through your throat, little crow.”

Jon shakes his head, even as his breath catches in his throat, even as everything in him yearns for what Tormund is proposing. “I _can’t_ —”

Tormund reaches out to cup the back of Jon’s head, stilling the motion. _“But do you want to?”_

“I—” He can’t do it. He can’t lie; he never could, not even when it mattered. He can’t say no to this when he does want to go, so badly that it’s an ache, but he can’t give voice to it either.

Tormund lets Jon go, and stands abruptly. “It is your decision, as you say. I was waiting for you to ask, until I realized such a thing would never occur to you.” He pauses. “It should have. We waited here for you, when we heard you were coming back You will always have a home with us. You should know that by now.”

He leaves the tent before Jon can say a word, mind reeling.

* * *

He finds Tormund later that day, fixing the wood from Jon’s frantic late-night ax chopping into something more usable. “They’ll come looking for me.”

Tormund stops and looks at him. “What?”

“If I break my sentence and go with you beyond the Wall, they’ll come looking for me.”

Tormund snorts. “Let them.”

“Tormund.”

Tormund drops the ax and grabs the front of Jon’s furs, pulling him forward. “You stupid, stupid crow. Do you not understand? We waited for you. You are respected here—loved, even. You _died_ for us. Do you think we’ve forgotten? Do you think we’d let some fancy southerners come take you away from us after what you’ve done for our people? Let them come. Let them try.”

There’s something building in Jon’s chest, and he has to look away until he feels Tormund’s hand under his chin, drawing his gaze back up. “Did you not hear what I said earlier? We were supposed to leave three months ago. We waited for you, once we heard you were coming. _All_ of us. We waited for _you_.”

“How did you know I was coming back?”

“Because the crows of Castle Black are the biggest bunch of gossips I’ve ever fucking met.”

Jon laughs. The sound is scratchy and foreign, but it’s real, and it makes Tormund grin. “Come with us. If it’s what you want. Let us take you home.”

Jon closes his eyes. Nods. “Okay.”

Something loosens in his chest.

* * *

“When can we leave?”

He asks this question of Tormund a mere hour later. His friend looks up from where he is sharpening his sword, lifting an eyebrow. “An hour ago I nearly had to beg you—”

“You were not _begging_ me—”

“And now you can’t wait to leave?”

Jon sighs, dropping down next to him and pulling out Longclaw. “I’m nervous.”

“Nervous to leave? Come now, you’ve been North before—”

“Nervous like I won’t get away with it.”

Tormund falters in his motion, an oddly closed look coming over his face, but he doesn’t say anything. “What?” Jon asks, suspicious and slightly alarmed. “What?”

“Well…” Tormund gestures around his camp. “Doesn’t exactly seem like the crows are all that concerned with what you do, does it? You’ve been here for three days, and the only black cloak we’ve seen outside their little nest is yours.”

Jon is silent, thinking of the Lord Commander’s polite greeting, at the lack of any instructions or sense of urgency. “They don’t want me here.”

“More likely that they don’t care one way or the other,” Tormund says simply. “If it weren’t for you, they’d all be fucking dead, and most of them know that.”

“And the rest of them?”

“We can leave as early as tomorrow,” Tormund says, ignoring the question. “But…forget about the crows. Isn’t there anyone else you want to tell?”

Jon lifts an eyebrow. “Tell who? The King in the South who ordered me here, or the Queen in the North whose lands these are?”

“Tell your _brother_ or your _sister_.”

He looks away. “I said my good-byes,” he says simply.

Tormund doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs. “Tomorrow, then. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Go on, pretend to ask whichever crow you need to ask, and then tell them if they try to keep you here, we’ll drag you behind us if we must.”

* * *

 As it turns out, Tormund is right. The Lord Commander not only seems entirely disinterested in Jon’s vague plans to, as he puts it, _escort the Free Folk back home_ , but offers him two horses in addition to their already promised supplies.

“Keep them for as long as you need,” says the Lord Commander.

Jon can practically see Tormund’s look of exasperation as he hesitates. “I don’t want to cause the Watch any problems, by...being gone for a while.

The Lord Commander shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he says. “You could be out ranging. What are they going to do, follow you to check?”

“I see.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he says sternly. “I won’t have anyone risk their necks, should it come to that. But there are enough of us here who remember what you did to see us through the Long Night.”

Jon nods, and the man stands, offering him a hand. “No one will stop you. Go, Jon Snow. Go escort them north. Let it take however long it takes.”

* * *

It isn’t until much later that night, when he is pondering the Lord Commander’s words and his permission, that he realizes he didn’t need it. That he would’ve gone anyway. That he wants this, needs this, in a way that cuts through the numbness that still sits heavy in his chest.

So they go.

He and Tormund mount their horses, one a reddish-chestnut, one black as Jon’s cloak. Ghost leads the way and the Free Folk line up behind them, and they leave Castle Black behind. Jon glances at the gate one last time before fixing his gaze firmly ahead. His eyes catch on something green and fresh that’s forced its way up through the snow, and he feels something warm and liquid deep inside of him, filling up the cracks in the broken thing, something that feels like safety, like home.

**Author's Note:**

> a huge huge HUGE thanks to [melissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) for the beta (especially for all her hard work on making part one not be a hot mess) and to [lettie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn) for shrieking with me and giving me SO MANY IDEAS for the last section <3
> 
> i have a sequel in the works - that's a lie, i have two sequels in the works sfjkdlfhsdifjwei 
> 
> i feel like i need a disclaimer that i LOVE cat but man that can't have been an easy childhood for jon :( WHY IS GoT SO TRAGIC
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


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